


Enough

by brittanywherebuthere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittanywherebuthere/pseuds/brittanywherebuthere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor reflects on recent events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

_Enough_.  The word echoed in his mind. _Enough_. He thought about it as he took another long draw from the wineskin, repeating the word over and over until it almost began to sound wrong in his head. He was sitting against the battlements on the rooftop of Maegor’s Holdfast, where he often went to drink in solitude, away from the other Kingsguard and rowdy men-at-arms. But tonight he had also come to drink in shame.

 _Enough_. He thought about how the word signified adequacy, being sufficient to answer a need. He snorted ruefully at the irony. He had been anything but adequate and had done nothing at all to answer the girl’s needs for protection, for an end to the pain and humiliation. _Even that bloody fool Dontos did more for her than I could manage_ , he thought. But that was unfair, he suddenly realized. Dontos had saved him from the horrible situation of having to hurt Sansa himself or defy the boy’s direct orders, which may only have made Joffrey angrier and put the girl in more danger.

But even the efforts of the fool Dontos had not kept her from harm. He was haunted by the images of Boros hitting her with his fist, his sword and of falling, shredded pieces of the silken gown she had earlier smoothed so carefully, hoping to please her betrothed. He heard so clearly the crowd laughing cruelly and saw Meryn looking on, a look of boredom in his cold eyes.

Sandor did not know what was more painful, the memories of it or the shame of his cowardice to stop it. He took another drink. He had always turned to wine to escape his anger, but he was lately finding that its numbing effects only served to amplify his shame. So he drank on, almost relishing the intensity of his own pain, knowing he deserved it.

When he later stumbled into the White Sword Tower of the Kingsguard and made his way to his chambers, he stared for a time at the door leading to the quarters of Boros and the door concealing a sleeping Meryn. _My brothers_ , he thought in disgust. The white cloaks they wore on their backs were a farce, and he hated liars. They had taken the vows and yet they would strike a young girl. _They don’t deserve to wear the white cloaks_ , he told himself. But then he remembered the white cloak he himself donned everyday and his rage quickly turned once more to shame. He was just as guilty as these two men, was he not? Is being passive and craven really any better than being cruel?

 _But at least I haven’t said any buggering vows_ , he thought defensively, reaching a hand around to his back to tear the thing off. When his hand only met cold armor, he remembered.

He had already ripped it off himself once today.

Disgusted, he pictured how he had thrown it at her, keeping himself distant from her despite wanting to wrap it around her shoulders and carry her out of the room, away from the sadistic boy and his vile court, away from the prying eyes that reminded him so much of his youth. The same stares and whispers had followed him around Casterly Rock when he was still a boy, freshly escaped from the tyranny of his brother only to be confronted with looks of disgust and, even worse, pity. As he grew and found an outlet for his rage in the training yards, he also found people were less likely to stare and make snide comments about his melted face.

Intimidation was his only escape from them. But who could the little bird possibly intimidate? _Only me_ , he mused ruefully. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to approach her, much less spirit her out of the hall, not after he had seen how the king’s eyes had narrowed at his feeble protest. _Enough._ So he had once again chosen the craven way out and simply thrown it, as if to say, “Catch, Sansa. Make a grab for your dignity.”

He fell into a fitful, drunken sleep that night, wrought with images of falling strips of silk and muddied cloaks.

When he sat up in his bed the next morning, the room spun slightly. Standing up, he rubbed his temples and cast his eyes around the room for a flagon of wine to ease the dryness in his mouth. A shaft of sunlight from his single window illuminated the chest in the corner of his sleeping cell, and sitting upon that chest, folded into a neat square, was his white cloak. A maid must have returned it to his cell as he slept.

Slowly he walked over and picked up the cloak, letting it unfold so that the bottom fell to brush along the floor.  The whiteness of the coarse fabric caught the sunlight and reflected it brightly into his already over-sensitive eyes, as if the cloak itself was mocking him for having ever worn it.

He threw the cloak away onto his bed as if stung and preceded to wash his face with cold water and dress himself for the day. When he was almost ready to leave his cell, he suddenly realized he had forgotten to don the cloak. He grabbed a fistful of it and could almost see her little fists holding the fabric to her, as if it was shield. He sighed and was just about to fasten the cloak about his shoulders, where it would hang like a burden the rest of his days, when a glint caught his eye.

And there, clinging to the coarse white weave, was a long thread the color of copper. He took it between his fingers, letting the cloak fall to the floor, and realized it was hers. It had been left for him like a gift. He knew he didn’t deserve it, but he decided to keep it anyway.

He wrapped the length of it around the hilt of his sword, hoping that it might give him the courage to use the thing the next time she was in harm. And then suddenly he remembered the boy of six he had once been, who had dreamed of knights and tourneys and ladies’ favors. He shook his head, ashamed, and wrenched the hair away from the grip of his sword. _I am no knight,_ he reminded himself. _Just a dog._

He held the hair once more in his hands, feeling the smoothness. He wondered what it might be like to run a hand through her hair, to touch one of her ivory cheeks, to see her smile at him…

 _Enough of this, you fool_ , he rebuked himself, and let the long strand fall slowly to the floor. Then he laughed gruffly and without amusement at his choice of words. _Enough._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This little one-shot is my first ever attempt at (what I guess would be qualified as) fanfiction. I just wanted to write about some things I was wondering about. So, pretty please, let me know what you thought!


End file.
